Violently Breaking
by tidvis
Summary: Suddenly you feel the grip of Sherlock's firm hands at either side of your wet face. Through the tears you see that he is moving closer; the eyes, the lips, the nose and the cheekbones growing larger as he finally presses his mouth to yours. It is hardly a kiss, and more just a pair of lips crashing together – a gesture that reveals the full extent of Sherlock's inexperience.


"I can't, Sherlock, I just can't do it! Can you get that through your thick scull?"

You are shouting. You never meant to shout, or even raise your voice, but it's as if you've suddenly lost all control over yourself. Before you even know it, you are yelling. Yelling and gesturing; angry, and you hardly know why. If anything, you should feel happy, flattered – exhilarated.

Sherlock is standing across from you, and his face is a puzzle of expressions. A minute ago, he had been leaning comfortably against the window sill, but the sudden shouting sent him to his feet, his head recoiling with shock.

"No, I can't, because it doesn't make sense!" He's yelling now, too, waving his arms up and down in frustration. How did the two of you end up in this situation? "Explain it to me! You're obviously attracted to me, we practically spend all our time together already as it is, and just now, you even confessed that you've had romantic feelings toward me – these are the facts! So what is it I am missing here? Please, tell me!"

You don't even think as you spit out your next words, your voice cracking under the weight of them.

"I don't want to be another one of your experiments!"

Eyes wide, he stares at you, perplexed. "I never said anything about an experiment."

"Well, that's what this is, isn't it? An experiment – just another area of knowledge that you need to grasp to do your job effectively. Relationships. Feelings." You are basically vomiting words now; they leave your system so effortlessly, yet you feel the risk of crying increasing with every passing second. You tell yourself to pull it together as you add, with spite: "It absolutely_ burns_ you that there are still things in this world that you don't fully comprehend, doesn't it?"

"That's beside the point –" he starts, and something inside you just snaps.

"NO, IT'S NOT!"

"John –"

"I REFUSE TO BE USED LIKE THAT –"

"CAN WE PLEASE STOP SHOUTING!"

Falling quiet, you both look away for a moment. Your insides are practically burning. Are you catching a fever? You are starting to feel dizzy.

What's happening? As you try to grasp hold of what's real and what's not, you quickly glance over the mess in the apartment. Papers are strewn everywhere, dirty mugs and plates crowd every surface, and clothes lay hastily thrown over every piece of furniture – though none of that is hardly out of the usual.

Did Sherlock really just suggest that the two of you should start dating? Shaking your head slightly, you shift your weight. Rubbing your eyes, you take a deep breath. This just isn't happening. It can't be.

It's all a mess; the flat's a mess, Sherlock's a mess, and this conversation is a mess.

You can hear him breathing. A fluttering movement at the corner of your eye tells you that he's raised his hands to his face and is now covering it with them, moving them up and down as if he's trying to scrub himself clean.

"I just don't –," he says, his voice muffled. His arms fall back to his sides, as he continues, calmly now: "If we are both – in lack of a better word – _fond_ of each other, and we've both experienced these … _feelings_ … then, why not – what's the harm? Why are you so reluctant to even consider it?"

Sighing, you force yourself to look up and directly into his wide, pale eyes. They look so innocent in this light. So desperate to understand, to find a reason. So sincere, in their own way.

"Because I know what it would do to me," you reply quietly, the anger inside quelled by those incandescent irises.

He hesitates, his hands in his pant pockets, before he asks: "And what, exactly, would that be?"

Closing your eyes, you shake your head dismissively once more.

How can you tell him what you are thinking? That heartbreaking insight that came to you the very first time you even dared to imagine a future with Sherlock at your side – how can you describe it to him? Sherlock may be arrogant, and he may be narcissistic, and he may be hurtful; he may be many things, given certain circumstances, but that doesn't mean that he is a bad person. No matter how much he has hurt you, you never want to consciously insult him if there is another alternative, because you care about him too much. The fact that he is too self-absorbed to even notice an insult will never change that fact.

Yet, on some level, you know that it has to be said. You know that you cannot keep pretending like nothing is wrong. You also know that Sherlock will not rest and that he will not stop inquiring until he gets a clear answer, which is why you force your lips apart and say: "It would destroy me."

He laughs uncertainly. "Oh, please, don't be so melodramatic –"

"It would _destroy _me, Sherlock; being with you, in that way. In fact, I think it would destroy just about anyone."

He looks so confused; his thick brows furrowed as he tries to process these words, his fingers moving nervously in his pockets (he thinks that you don't notice these things, but you always do). For once, he is quiet; thinking, waiting for you to elaborate. Yet he doesn't look insulted, and you realize that the inquisitive expression on his face is not the least bit surprising, but that it still irritates you. You inhale, and then you exhale, searching your mind for the words you have practised so many times, but never had the courage to say out loud; perhaps never even intended to say out loud.

"You have … no idea of the impact you have on other people's lives. Everywhere you go, and in every person that you meet, you leave a trail of destruction at your heels. Look at the people closest to you – none of which are as close to you as I am – and the traces are clear as day. The scars that you've left in their lives – and in mine. And we haven't even known each other for that long, it's – startling, really. How you're completely oblivious to the power you hold over the people who love and respect you. How you destroy them, bit by bit, and don't even have the decency to notice what your doing."

You stop yourself before you say too much, your voice turning bitter at that last sentence. Somehow, you had expected it to be a relief to finally get to explain all this to him, but it isn't; far from it. Instead, you are left with a huge knot at the pit of your stomach, that you can't seem to make sense of.

You know that Sherlock is staring, even as you avert your eyes to observe your own hands.

"Then …" says Sherlock, his voice unreadable. "If I am such a … such an awful human being, which you seem to think … then why do you all stay? What sort of … defect in your minds make you stay close to a man who does nothing but harm you?" He is speaking faster with every word, the tone of his voice harsher by every syllable. "Is it not your own fault, for not knowing when to step away – is it really _my responsibility_ to ensure that every one around me is _happy _and _comfortable _– I mean, my god! It's not as if I have _actually _important matters to tend to –"

Too much. This is quickly becoming too much for you. As Sherlock's rant turns into shouting, relentless yelling, all you want to do is flee, so you turn your back to him. But where can you go? You move to the kitchen, half-heartedly trying to gesture the words which you can't bring yourself to utter.

It's no use. Sherlock's voice still reaches you loud and clear.

"– bloody typical, I never wanted to get involved in other people's lives, but you all cling to me like parasites, like you're, you're feeding off me! I never asked for any of it! And if I am such a _horrid_ being, then aren't you people even worse for actually _defending _my honour, for_ forgiving _and _supporting_ and_ helping_, even after I FUCK EVERYTHING UP – EVEN AFTER I RUIN YOUR BLOODY –"

"Stop," you begin to mumble, reaching for support, digging your fingernails into the wooden back of one of the kitchen chairs. "Stop it. Stop." You shut your eyes, trying to think it all away. "Please, just … stop it. Stop –" As you open them again, he is staring right at you from a distance, saliva flying as he shouts profanities into your face. "Sherlock, will you just STOP IT!"

Without thinking – your mind gone black as the night – you pick up the chair that you are holding onto and hurl it blindly in his direction, your voice rising into a feral, primal roar. Darting out of sight, he just barely avoids getting hit, and the chair instead goes straight into a wall and shatters into pieces, but you aren't even looking at him now. You pant heavily, trying to calm yourself. After the loud crash, the flat is filled by a deafening silence.

It takes some time before you fully regain your senses. You feel dizzy and disoriented, and your vision is dark an blurry. Supporting yourself against the kitchen table, you try to calm your rapid breathing and your racing heart. You don't even look up as Sherlock carefully sticks his head up from behind his armchair, scanning the room as he assesses his safety. After deducing that the coast is clear – the immediate threat of the hostile piece of furniture having been disarmed – he stands up, straightens his shirt and clears his throat.

"My apologies," he says in a hushed tone. "I …" He inhales, exhales. "I apologise."

"It's … okay," you say, still not looking up.

_It's not okay_, you think, rubbing your throbbing temples.

"No." This from Sherlock, as he moves into the kitchen, his hands in his pockets again, fingers moving. "It is obvious from your reaction that it is not okay." He sighs. "Christ, I – I don't understand these things. I don't know anything about dealing with people, or their feelings – other than the fact that it makes me horribly uncomfortable. I'm socially handicapped! Literally! And I know this, John, but I'm telling you that I sincerely want to try and change that. I actually want to try and be a more sympathetic – no, a more … emotional person."

He is close to you know. Even as you reluctantly stare at the floor, you can't not notice his shadow falling on your feet. He is still, observing your reaction.

"It's not something …. that you can just learn."

He ponders these words for a moment or two, then replies: "Well. If I can't learn, then I can, at the very least, try to understand, can't I? Maybe, that way I won't … be as hard to be around. How does that sound?"

Though you have regained all of your senses by now, you still do not want to lift your gaze from the floor; you're still trying to shut it all out. A secret part of you clings to the hope that it is all just a dream; that you have actually fallen asleep in the sofa, and that Sherlock _didn't _just propose a relationship, and that you _didn't _just throw a chair right at him, and –

Oh, god. The chair. You didn't even care to look if it actually hit him. He could have gotten really hurt by that.

As your instinct betrays you, your eyes dart upwards to scan that familiar face for injuries; injuries that you have caused and that you shall help to heal. But his face is completely unharmed. His hair seems a bit dishevelled, but no more than usual, really. As your eyes lock onto each other, he even musters a smile.

"Thought you'd never look me in the eye."

Rubbing your neck, you struggle to wipe the distressed look off your face. "Sorry about the, um … the chair thing."

"Oh, no worries," he replies cheerfully, like it hadn't been such a big deal. After a moments pause, he adds: "So what do you say? Will you help me?"

You think about it, actually considering it for a second. "I just don't know _how_," you say truthfully. "You can't_ teach_ someone what or how to feel. And most of the stuff that goes on between people as they interact is subconscious anyway, you know. It's kind of hard to pinpoint what –"

"Well, I'm not asking you to explain every little thing in detail. There are just things that I need to wrap my head around. Let's start with something palpable."

He wraps his fingers around your arm and leads you to the sitting room. As he pushes you down onto the sofa, your body is stiff, and you seat yourself the way you always sit; back straightened, hands on your thighs, facing forward. Sherlock looks at you from the side, eager to continue this conversation that you would much rather just forget.

"You were right," he says. "It frustrates me that I don't have a grip on these things. Like when you say that –," he pauses, choosing his words with more care this time, "– that I hurt people, and then don't even acknowledge it. What I don't get is why you – well, not just you, but everyone – why you insist on sticking with me, you know? It just isn't logical."

"It's not supposed to be logical."

"Then why is it? Why do you put up with it?"

"Because …" you breathed, suddenly exhausted. "Because, that's what people do, Sherlock. They stick together. They forgive, and they support, and they help each other. Not because you deserve it, but because you needit."

"But it's so unfruitful, and time-consuming."

You shake your head. "No, no, no, you're missing the whole point. The people in your life, we aren't here by coincidence. We could've left at any given time, had we wanted. We are here because we know, maybe better than you do yourself, that you need us. We're your spectators, your … your crutches, and we'll always be here, in the periphery, hoping that one day you might notice us, and that you might see how much we sacrificed just to be close to you.

"But –"

"Just hoping that one day you might acknowledge the fact that we're here, and be thankful."

"But why?"

"Just because. We'll always be here. I'll –"

You realize now that you are crying. When did you start crying?

"Always?"

"No matter what."

You are just about to stand up and escape to your room – you feel weary, and need to rest – when you suddenly feel the grip of Sherlock's firm hands at either side of your wet face. Through the tears you see that he is moving closer; the eyes, the lips, the nose and the cheekbones growing larger as he finally presses his mouth to yours. It is hardly a kiss, and more just a pair of lips crashing together – a gesture that reveals the full extent of Sherlock's inexperience.

It only last for a few seconds before he backs off, peeling his hands from your surprised face. He inches away from you, and blushes. It is the first time you've seen even a hint of embarrassment in him.

"I'm terribly sorry, I was – just –"

"No," you say, a bit dazed still. "It – it's okay. I –"

"God," he exclaims suddenly, "is this normal? The shaking hands, this feeling in my chest – heavy and light at the same time. And that sucking, tingling sensation in my gut, it's like there's a _snake_ or something slithering about –"

"Butterflies," you say, wiping your eyes with the sleeve of your shirt.

"What?"

"Most people say butterflies."

"I shouldn't have kissed you, I apologize, John. I'm really out of my depths here."

"It's okay."

So you sit for a while, not speaking, both of you facing forward now. Inside, your heart is silently breaking. Isn't this exactly what you have been wishing for for such a long time? Sherlock wanting to change, Sherlock noticing you, Sherlock kissing you … So why is that all you can feel in this moment is despair?

"So, I suppose I should give you some time to think, yes?" he asks pensively.

"There's nothing to think about, Sherlock," you reply, your heart breaking still. "I told you: I can't be in a relationship with you, I just can't. As much as I would like –," you quickly interrupt yourself, "I just … can't do that to myself."

"Oh." Disappointment and sadness washes over his face. "And you won't even … consider it? Sleep on it, perhaps?"

"No," you say.

_Because then I might change my mind_, you think.

"Oh."

Standing up, Sherlock seems suddenly at a loss for words. He looks toward the window, then around at the room, and then down at his hands. He opens his mouth, but doesn't speak, and it closes again. He turns around on the spot and looks down at you, then up at the wall, and then at you again.

"So, what now?" he says finally. "What do I do with these … these … feelings? How do get rid of them – can I turn them into something productive?"

You shrug. "You don't just get rid of them like that. You cope. You go on with your life."

"But, it – it..." Sherlock's face contorts, perplexed. "… hurts."

"Feelings tend to do that."

"But, I mean, how do people usually handle this sort of thing? I can't leave it at this, and just … live with these feelings. They're too distracting. There's got to be some trick to making them go away."

"There isn't. You just live with them, and try to move on. In time, hopefully, they'll fade on their own."

"And what if I can't do that – just live with them? What happens if one can't cope?"

"Well, then you… you run the risk of losing yourself in them and, eventually, break under their weight."

"Oh."

He looks around the room once more, sighs and then disappears into his room. You remain where you are for a long while, doing nothing, thinking nothing, feeling nothing, as your world crashes to the ground. Inside, you're heart is violently breaking.


End file.
